


The Art of the Trade

by wreathed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bargaining, Canon Era, Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jefferson arranges the seating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of the Trade

Madison is the one to answer Hamilton’s knock on the door and wordlessly escort him to the townhouse’s dining room, dressed in austere gray and casting his eyes over Hamilton’s finest clothes as if the temerity of their bright color has personally offended him. The Federalist Papers collaboration feels like a long time ago.

Madison closes the door of the dining room behind them, and from that moment onwards Hamilton can hear nothing of the noise from the street outside. Jefferson gives an affected cough from behind his hand and Hamilton’s eyes snap straight to him. He is already seated, and dressed head to toe in purple. The three of them, sealed in this room, together. Hamilton tenses his body to try and prevent fidgeting, but he can’t stop his heart from starting to beat faster.

There is a finely and sturdily constructed rectangular table in the center of the room, set with food for three, but it seems there are no servants in attendance. Jefferson remains seated in his chair at one of the short sides of the table as Madison takes the chair opposite him. Typical of Jefferson not to even bother to stand, Hamilton thinks with his jaw clenched – as if he is above everyone, even Madison. Jefferson’s plum colored coat covers most of the chair, which looks like a slightly different sort to the other two – not like Jefferson to forgo an aesthetic eye. Perhaps he has other things on his mind tonight.

Then Hamilton’s eyes follow Jefferson’s legs down (Jefferson looks smug once he notices, and Hamilton scowls) and he notices that Jefferson’s legs are stretched out, his feet crossed and resting on a high, long kind of wooden dais that runs under his chair and the table. Another one of Jefferson’s inventions that he must be trialing, then, much like the strange chair on wheels that he has heard sits in Jefferson’s study.

No request has been made for Hamilton to sit – indeed, no comment of any kind has been made since his entrance – so Hamilton forthrightly takes the third chair, the empty one on one of the long sides of the table so that he is seated an equal distance away from the two of them.

“Gentlemen,” Hamilton says, though he feels the definition is being stretched. “Thank you for inviting me to meet with you. I am humbly grateful for your willingness to face compromise.”

Jefferson sighs, rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I say?” he says, addressing Madison. “Didn’t I say Hamilton would be the first to speak? Wouldn’t be able to wait for the host’s welcome to be voiced?”

Hamilton feels himself tense against the hardwood arms of his chair. “Well, if nobody is saying anything, you don’t give me much of a choice. We are here to negotiate, after all.”

“Alright,” Jefferson says, smile wide but not reaching his eyes. He picks up his fork and spears a buttered new potato in one smooth motion. “Let’s negotiate.”

They negotiate. There are disparaging comments, little in-jokes, between Jefferson and Madison made with smirks and glances, that are not fully explained to Hamilton. By the time the capital’s been traded away, he’s been made acutely aware of the approximate nature of what the rest of his side of the bargain will consist of – the _personal_ buy-in – and it makes his back ache as he makes sure to sit up proud and ramrod-straight as he is joked over, ignored, yet given everything he’s ever wanted. He wants to get all he can for what he’s going to have to do, and he achieves it – full control over the country’s new financial system. His fingers itch with anticipation of, once he gets to leave, the missives he will have the opportunity to write down.

But, yes. He knows what he must do now to ensure it. The capital isn’t enough; there are two of them and one of him, so they require two trade-offs in exchange for their one. Perhaps that’s what it is. Fair’s fair.

Burr had warned him. Hamilton has willingly stepped into a room where the quality of mercy is in short supply. Within himself he feels anticipatory fear, and white-hot shame, but nothing that could be described as revulsion.

As they have talked, food has been consumed. Jefferson appears to take his cue from Madison and places his cutlery down five seconds after Madison does. Hamilton has left his plate half full, but his throat is dry, and he is finding it difficult to concentrate on anything as everyday as eating. He has done it. _He has done it._

The table conversation has reverted to uncharacteristic silence once more, and this time Hamilton does not break it.

Jefferson reaches to his side and grasps the neck of a bottle of sweet wine, chilled from sitting in ice. Dessert wine without dessert. He uncorks it, and Madison looks across at Jefferson firmly with a tiny jerk of his head.

“A toast,” Jefferson says. Hamilton tries to calm his breathing. This can’t be it, this can’t be the _end_.

It isn’t. Hamilton moves to pick up his glass, to lift it towards the bottle Jefferson holds, but it’s Madison this time that laughs disdainfully at him as he proffers his glass to Jefferson instead. Jefferson pours, and Hamilton feels the chill emanating from the open bottle.

“The wine isn’t for you, Hamilton,” says Jefferson, his eyes still on Madison. “You’re beneath us, and, as part of this deal, you’ll take your seat beneath us. Well, beneath me, anyway.”

Their glasses are full of the cold wine while Hamilton’s is empty. They stand up together.

There is a place for his head to go.

The chair; Jefferson’s chair. He has never seen anything like it, but it’s immediately obvious what its purpose is. The dais is for his body to lie on, and the strung-up fabric sling is for his head. Then, above it, is – nothing. A space.

Something treacherous within him jumps, thrums. He feels his lips part as his mouth falls open.

Jefferson and Madison walk to to meet each other on Hamilton’s side of the table as if in preconceived configuration, and clink glasses. Hamilton is already beneath them before they’ve even begun, sitting like this. All he can see from this angle is the arms of their coats as he stays still, does not lift his head. His heart feels as if it’s about to thump out of his chest.

Hamilton closes and opens his mouth again with a dry-click swallow. “And what,” he says. “If I refuse?”

“I don’t think you want to refuse, do you? You _begged_ me for this evening, but I could stand to see you begging a little more.” Jefferson’s addressing him, but he’s still looking at Madison, not at him, and that’s what makes Hamilton really desperate to win their approval for a deal done well. Make himself worthy of their attention. He feel himself start to get hard in his breeches.

“That is to say, you can,” Jefferson continues, and Hamilton catches Madison’s quick, twisted smile. “But all other components of our offer will come off the table. It’s worth my saying – no-one will ever know what happens here tonight outside of the three of us. Your crazy fiscal plan: now, that’s a public legacy everyone’ll remember. For a little while, at least.”

“You don’t think it’ll work.”

“I don’t think it’ll work. But I might as well have my fun.”

“You give me only the semblance of choice,” Hamilton says. Another swallow. “I’ll do it.” He’ll be Jefferson’s _fun_. For one night, it’s worth it.

“I do love a sacrifice,” Jefferson says quietly to the polished tabletop ( _still_ not looking at him, and Hamilton wants to rise up and grab him by the shoulders and demand him to _turn and face me_ ). “But I have the feeling I’m not quite getting one.”

Jefferson hands his glass to Jefferson; Madison’s mouth is set itself into a tight line, but Madison takes it from him and sets it down along with his one on the far end of the table. Then Jefferson strides back over towards his seat, shoes clicking on the wooden floor.

“I designed it myself,” Jefferson says with a theatrical sweep of his hand. “Based on a contraption I have seen in Paris. Hamilton, your sister-in-law could tell you all about it.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hamilton says, the sudden spike of anger Jefferson has caused making him find his tongue at last. “Leave her out of this.”

“Hey, who says I’m lying?” Jefferson smiles unkindly, and now he’s got his eyes on Hamilton, giving Hamilton a surge of triumph. “There are places other than brothels for Parisians to indulge. I’m not saying she was ever a whore. Just that she was a open-minded, _open_ woman who knew what she wanted–”

“Not that it was you in a position of submission,” Hamilton spits out. “You’d never want that, right? You’d never debase yourself.”

Jefferson’s whole face twitches, and Hamilton feels the familiar grim pleasure of a minor victory. “Of course,” he sneers. “This is word of mouth. Whereas Hamilton, you were made for it. Plenty of loose hair to pull on, your whoreson’s mouth begging to be stopped–”

“I do _not_ have a–” Hamilton begins hotly, rising to Jefferson’s blatant goading, then, in a fierce internal battle, managing to stop himself in time.

“We’ll see for ourselves soon enough,” Jefferson smirks. “James, help me strip him. Tonight, any part of him I want to use is mine, and I want unfettered access. And, Hamilton, if I were in your position, I’d want to cool my tongue to avoid any particularly bad consequences.”

Scowling, humiliated, Hamilton is dragged to standing by Jefferson and watches as Jefferson and Madison begin to remove his clothing, setting it all down in an untidy pile in the floor. Madison is more efficient than Jefferson, and keeps his eyes on the far wall.

“You’re James’s too, if he wants you. But apparently he doesn’t. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Madison rolls his eyes – on him, even such a flamboyant action is turned into something controlled. “I just think you’re being excessive, Thomas. _As usual._ Get the capital and then kick Hamilton out. But if this is so important to you…”

Hamilton flushes. Had Madison no desire to involve himself because he still held respect for him? Or was it because he no longer held any respect for him at all?

They get as far as his shoes, stockings and breeches, then his neckcloth, which Jefferson unties slowly, his fingers pressing against Hamilton’s neck as if he’s testing how much pressure would be required to choke him, when Madison sighs in impatience and in one sudden movement rips Hamilton’s coat off, tearing where one arm joins the shoulder in the process. It will be months before he will be able to afford another like it, especially with the expense of his payments to James Reynolds. He is no Virginian.

Hamilton’s long shirttails are still covering the rest of him. But next come Jefferson’s slim fingers as Madison steps back, Jefferson's fingers poking in between the buttons of Hamilton’s shirt and prising them apart. The unbuttoned shirt is pushed from his shoulders, Jefferson leans in as if to kiss him, but instead he just keeps his face right up against Hamilton’s for a few moments. His eyes are cold. Hamilton can feel Jefferson’s breath on his lips. After being ignored for so long, the close attention assails him, and he feels even more jittery in his own skin. The attention, even if too much, gives Hamilton something to keep in his mind to spur him on.

“Wonderful,” Jefferson says as he moves back again, dragging his gaze up and down Hamilton’s now-naked body, Hamilton shivering slightly and fighting the urge to cover his cock with his hands, instead meets Jefferson’s eyeline, head held high. “Now, over to me, Hamilton.” 

Feeling as if he is being pulled by an invisible tether, Hamilton begins to makes his way towards Jefferson, but Jefferson is quick to hold out his hand for him to stop. Of course. Jefferson wouldn’t make any of this _easy_.

“On your knees,” Jefferson says, and Hamilton shakes as he drops to the floor – because there’s no point, is there, in putting a stop to this just to avoid this abject humiliation – and crawls to where Jefferson is standing. Upon Jefferson motioning for him to do so, he perfunctorily removes everything Jefferson’s wearing from the waist down, hoping Jefferson won’t notice the way his fingers fumble over every button. Jefferson and Madison continue their conversation as he goes, on how the seat of government will soon be just a two day journey from their estates, and where exactly Washington might select to build, and who might be the man to plan out the new city.

Once Hamilton is finished, he kneels to the side of Jefferson, eyes down. Jefferson waits. Hamilton is frozen to his spot. Jefferson clears his throat in that affected way of his again, and it’s enough to force Hamilton into action – he awkwardly takes his space, very aware of his nakedness as he lies flat and puts his head up in the sling. He tries to ground himself by following the ornate patterns in the ceiling. He can’t see anything else. He hears Madison pick something up from the floor, lean down and dispassionately use the stockings Hamilton had been wearing to tie his wrists to the front legs of the chair. Hamilton tests the bonds. He’s trapped. His breathing starts to quicken. Then Jefferson sits down upon him and he absolutely enclosed. He can’t hear their conversation as loudly anymore. He licks his lips.

“Hamilton, if you don’t do something in the next five seconds, the deal’s off,” he hears projected from above him, loud and clear.

He closes his eyes, licks a stripe over Jefferson’s hole, which tastes of lye soap and sweat, and lets himself drift. Some time later, his tongue right inside Jefferson and his lips sucking against sensitive skin, he notices his insistent erection. Above him, Jefferson is carrying on an albeit now more languid conversation with Madison.

“Oh, look, he’s so hard. That’s cute,” Jefferson drawls from above him. “With anyone else I’d be surprised, but with Hamilton…”

Then, there is the quiet clatter of glass on cloth. “Thomas!” Madison says. “You need another glass?”

“The boy is good for this,” Jefferson admits, and somewhere deep and dark within him, Alexander feels a glow from the appreciation. “Even if it’s the only thing he’s good for. I don’t know what Washington sees in him.”

Alexander bristles with the implied insult to Washington’s name, but it’s coupled with a terrible kind of floaty pleasure at the praise Jefferson is extolling of him. He is good for this, therefore he is good at this.

“Plenty still in the glass,” Jefferson says to Madison, with a dark laugh. “Still very cold. Perhaps Hamilton deserves some after all. Soften up his throat ahead of later.”

Later. If they used his throat… Hamilton would be able get to Jefferson more easily then. If they let him see his face. Might be able to goad or distract him into doing something stupid. A wave of pleasurable anticipation rolls over him.

Something happens that Hamilton can’t see, then Madison’s laughing too. Hamilton stills his tongue, staying where he is, expecting the wine to be given to him, to wash his mouth clean, to help him on his way to drunkenness and make this a little easier.

He finds out what’s happening soon enough. The wine from the glass is poured over his bare stomach in a sudden chill. He gasps as it hits him, feels it slide down his sides, smells the sweetness of it, feels it start to go sticky.

“There you go,” Jefferson says. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Hamilton chokes out against Jefferson, as the cool liquid trickles between his thighs. His erection has flagged a little from the sudden cold.

“Why have you stopped?” Jefferson says dangerously. “Get back to it or I’ll upend the whole damn bottle.”

 _Jesus_. He’s so… he’s tyrannical, although too precise to be arbitrary, but he’s so absolutely dismissive that Hamilton feels the need to please course through his veins again like his whole body could ignite.

He swills some spit from his mouth, getting his lips wet again, then goes back to eating Jefferson out.

They had tittered over his lowly status and his over-eager mouth; he had thought Jefferson would fuck him quickly and then ask him to depart. He had not expected this – something so involved, something that immerses him in shame, focuses him, pushes the noise of all his other thoughts away. To be made to crawl, to service, to give up control but to agree to do so. His clever words talked himself into this, but he can’t use them to get himself out, and the thought makes him feel reduced to nothing.

When does he stop doing this? Hamilton considers it as he takes the outer edge of Jefferson’s balls in his mouth, then licks back, before returning to flicking his tongue in and out of his hole. Whenever Jefferson get bored? Is he going to come like this? And when is it going to break _him_ , to feel like this, but to be ignored, his cock completely untouched. But this isn’t about him, his mind supplies. He’s here for Jefferson and Madison.

In time, Jefferson goes quieter and his breath starts hitching. Hamilton reckons he’s worked over his hole as good as he ever will, and hopes Jefferson is satisfied.

Jefferson rises, then with a jolt Hamilton hears the sound of him picking up the wine bottle. Unable to move, he can just about see Jefferson leaning against the edge of the table. Then Jefferson looks down at him. There’s color to his cheeks.

“Wash your mouth out,” he says, then from standing height pours the last of the wine over Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton swallows what he can and splutters out the rest.

 _Breathe_ he thinks, as he stays like that, gasping, stuck. _Breathe in and out._

“Alright,” Jefferson says, looking down to him again. “Now you’re good to suck me.” And Hamilton can’t help a tiny moan escape because he’s been looking forward to it so much – a change, he’ll be on display, he might even be able to make Jefferson come.

“I’m so pleased you’re pleased, Hamilton,” Jefferson says, looking as smug as ever, and Hamilton manages an insubordinate glare.

Jefferson unties him, pulls at his arm to get him to move. Hamilton stands up gingerly, still hard, his hair a total mess, and he can feel from the ache in his lips and jaw how hard he’s already used them. Madison’s sitting at the other end of the table, fully clothed, feet propped up on the tabletop. Inscrutable. 

“Get up here,” Jefferson says to Hamilton, patting the table twice where he wants him to jump up onto, like he’s a dog. The plates have been moved to the sideboard.

“Not finished with me?” Hamilton says. “You must really like it.”

“If we have to lift you up there–”

“There’s no need,” Hamilton says, feeling a prickle behind his eyes. “I’m my own man.” And with strength he didn’t know he still possessed, he hauls himself up onto the table.

“Hands and knees,” Jefferson says, and waits for Hamilton to assume the correct position. “Hands on the edge of the table.” They are both looking at him now. The focus of the room. Hamilton is very aware of his cock, heavy between his slightly spread apart legs.

“Not going to tie me up this time?” he says to Jefferson, aware he may be pushing his luck.

“No need,” Jefferson smiles as he sits back down again, rearranging his shirttails so that his cock is out. Hamilton, to his embarrassment, can’t look away, and feels his mouth water. “If you try and run, you’ll lose everything. If you try to get a hand on yourself like this, you’ll fall over. But if you’re so keen… James, can you hold his ankles down? Might give him more leverage.” Madison takes his feet off the table but stays seated, and reaches forward to hold Hamilton’s ankles down hard in big, firm hands.

“Now don’t you worry,” Jefferson says. “For this one, you don’t have to do anything except open your pretty little mouth.”

Then Jefferson winds Hamilton’s hair around one of his hands, gets his other hand on the back of his head, and pushes him until he’s halfway down Jefferson’s cock, then yanks him back up again. Then he does it again.

Jefferson’s fucking Hamilton’s throat, as promised; doesn’t even have to move his hips, just gets Hamilton’s head going up and down. Hamilton tries but can’t stop the copious amounts of spit that falls from his mouth onto Jefferson’s cock, nor can he stop the noises he makes whenever he chokes on it. The lingering taste of wine is overpowered. It’s easier though. He’s passive. The choice of what to do is taken from him.

Slowly, Jefferson starts to go deeper and deeper into his throat. He’s nearly to the base of Jefferson’s cock when Jefferson holds him there, and Hamilton has to breathe through the spit that covers his nose. “Watch your teeth,” Jefferson says, and moves his hand from Hamilton’s head to slap him on the cheek, cock still buried in his throat. Hamilton chokes from the unexpected force of it and shuts his eyes from the sting, but Jefferson doesn’t pull him up. “And keep your eyes open,” Jefferson says.

Hamilton opens them. He sees the sloppy mess he’s made of the base of Jefferson’s dick. His eyes are damp, he realizes. That’s why his vision’s slightly blurry.

Jefferson lifts his head up.

His shoulders and wrists are starting to ache from keeping himself up; he’s hyper-aware of the sweat on his ankles where Madison holds him down. Jefferson has an unrelenting grip in his hair, pulling on his scalp, as his mouth is guided up and down on Jefferson’s dick, faster and faster. Jefferson’s got him as no more than a hole to be used, incapable of rhetoric or even basic speech, and it blanks out his mind until he’s desperate for Jefferson to fuck him just for the sensation it will give him, and the chance for him to use his voice.

“You sure you don’t want a turn?” Jefferson is saying to Madison, and Hamilton’s aching body burns with heated shame over how he doesn’t get to be the one to offer himself up. “He’s making the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard coming out of that dumb run-on mouth of his.” Jefferson holds Hamilton right to the base of his cock for a few seconds, then squeezes at the front of his neck; Hamilton gags, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe– 

Jefferson lets go, and Hamilton takes in a breath through his nose, another gob of fluid forcing itself out of his mouth and over Jefferson’s balls. He is lifted up and gasps for air. He can see the tears clinging to his eyelashes.

“As long as you’re having fun,” he hears Madison say to Jefferson as if he is speaking from a great distance away, but he is still holding on to Hamilton’s ankles, wearing his involvement and his judgment as lightly as silk.

Somewhere in the back of his twisted mind comes Hamilton’s pleasure – he’s _pleased_ with himself for being able to take Jefferson’s length so deeply, for being good, and yes there might be wine and saliva all over his face but that’s only because Jefferson’s making him deepthroat him every time, and if Jefferson gains pleasure from this then surely Hamilton still somehow has the upper hand, and Jefferson’s hips at last begin to move as he gets Hamilton moving faster and faster–

Jefferson starts to come hot and thick in Hamilton’s throat with a low groan, then he pulls Hamilton’s mouth up and off him so the rest hits Hamilton’s cheeks and chin. Hamilton pants hard while he can, and Jefferson’s still got him, by the scruff of the neck now, and Hamilton needs Jefferson to not fall forwards, his shoulders shaking; he _needs_ him.

“Should’ve swallowed it all,” Jefferson says, between his heavy breaths. “Now everyone’ll be able to see you’ve been up to no good.”

Hamilton’s looking down at the floor. The taste of Jefferson fills his mouth. He can’t lift his head up to look Jefferson square in the eye; there’s hardly any strength left in his body. To his mortification, he feels precome drop from the tip of his aching cock onto the tabletop. He feels Madison’s hands leave his ankles; an anchor of sorts, gone.

“Get down on your forearms,” Jefferson says, almost bored. He has his eyes closed, relaxed after his orgasm. Hamilton, feeling the shaking of his straining thighs, the insistence of his dick, gives a tiny, choked swallow before he pushes himself further back so he’s in the middle of the table, then rests on his forearms.

“Keep your legs up. I don’t want you rubbing yourself off over the table,” Jefferson says, with audible distaste. “I mean, sure. You can come eventually. If you’re good.”

Hamilton can’t help his moan. Jefferson laughs at him and, he supposes, he probably does look pitiful to Jefferson right now.

For that, he gets Jefferson’s large palm smacking his ass, which he has little choice but to stick up in the air in this position. He has to fight everything in him that’s screaming for him to let his thighs fall down to his calves. Jefferson hits him again, making Hamilton cry out. Somewhere far away, Madison starts counting, sounding mildly amused. Jefferson tells him to shut up, which he does after a few more hits, but in his head Hamilton keeps going to try and ground himself.

On the fifteenth, he moans and trembles. His ass stings. “Please,” he says, his eyes even damper than before, pride by now completed depleted. “I need _something_.

“Not for you,” Jefferson reminds him, deadly quiet. “This is what you’re trading away. Whatever I do to you, don’t come until I say you can, otherwise everything we agreed to give you’s void.”

It’s not fair. They’re toying with him. They’re changing the terms. Hamilton wants to sob, but he just about manages to hold back from doing so.

A small bottle of something changes hands from Madison to Jefferson, and the next thing Hamilton feels is cold, slick: two of Jefferson’s fingers slipping inside him roughly. He looks between his own legs to see his hard, flushed cock twitching every time Jefferson gets anywhere near his prostate, and he has the feeling that won’t go unnoticed. Jefferson’s fingers feel big, but good, so good, but Hamilton has to hold back from acting out his pleasure, and his whole body trembles with the effort of doing so.

Jefferson withdraws his fingers, and Hamilton feels nothing but the sting of his ass from the spanking and his desperate need to be fucked – by anyone, at this point, it wouldn’t even matter who did it. Trembling, he follows where Jefferson pulls on his limbs and lets himself be stretched across the table on his front, bent over the table, his toes just touching the floor. Madison is on hand with Hamilton’s stockings, this time to tie his ankles and wrists together in their pairs. He won’t be able to move once again, won’t be able to stop himself offering himself up to Jefferson like he’s the next course. His cock, despite Jefferson’s earlier protests, is trapped between his stomach and the table top and it throbs with need. He can’t move. Breathe, he reminds himself. Breathe.

“You want me so bad,” Jefferson says from behind him, fingers almost gentle in his hair for the moment, and Hamilton thinks _no_ and _yes_ both at once. He feels Jefferson’s cockhead trace around the edge of his hole; Jefferson’s hard again. “It’s an understandable reaction. I’ve been trying to make it so you don’t enjoy things too much, but if you’re so determined to revel in every moment anyway, what more can I do?”

“Don’t come,” Jefferson reminds him, like it’s easy, and sinks his cock into Hamilton until he’s all the way inside.

Hamilton clenches his teeth and grunts and groans to stop himself from coming as the pressure builds on his cock and where Jefferson is inside him. There’s an edge of pain, too, so he focuses on that to help him out; his ankles being tied tight together means he’s clenched right around Jefferson.

Jefferson moves in and out of him, slowly at first. He soon begins to sound exerted.

“James? You sure?” Jefferson says between breaths. “He’s tight as a miser. Must prefer to use his mouth whenever he’s usually entertaining.” Hamilton bites down on the inside of his mouth, but he has no words left to come.

“Got to leave something for later,” Madison says simply, and, momentarily, Hamilton feels Jefferson’s fingers quiver where his hands are grabbing Hamilton’s waist.

Hamilton’s so _aware_ of Jefferson within him that it’s impossible to think of anything else. He bites down hard on his lip, uses the last of his strength to try and lift himself up from the table a little – impossible – anything to help out with his body’s desperation for release.

Jefferson notices, of course, and gives out a bitter laugh, truncated by a quiet gasp as he sinks right into Hamilton, beginning to speed up his thrusting. He hands around Hamilton’s waist, where he’s pushing Hamilton’s ass back onto his cock, tighten.

“If I hadn’t known you’d agree to all this,” Jefferson says over his heavy, uneven breathing as he fucks into Hamilton ever again, getting himself closer and closer. “I wouldn’t have offered.”

Jefferson comes for the second time that night with a choked-off moan, inside Hamilton, fingers gripped around Hamilton’s waist, and Hamilton can feel the outline of Jefferson’s cock tight against him, every hot pulse of his orgasm, and only just manages to somehow hold off his own – wouldn’t Jefferson just _love_ that, excuse to not honor the deal because Hamilton came just from Jefferson getting off – but Hamilton can’t avoid the quiet sob that comes with the intensity of it.

Jefferson pulls out of him swiftly, the space he leaves immediately apparent, and then flips Hamilton over and pushes him up the table, still tied but lying down flat now, cock a dark color and so heavy on his stomach. Back to looking at the patterns on the ceiling. He’s been prevented from touching himself this entire time, before he’d even started trying to, and after his body’s been manhandled and used for so long he’s never been more desperate to come.

Jefferson’s face looms into view, same amused sneer as ever as he takes in the mess all over Hamilton’s face.

“Can I come now” Hamilton chants out, unable to think of anything else.

“Please, sir,” Jefferson says. He could stand to see him begging a little more, still.

“Please can I come now please, sir, please,” Hamilton says, not even pausing to think about what he’s having to say. Jefferson’s got total power over him, and Madison is there to outnumber him, always waiting. “You’ve got to say, I’ve been good.”

Jefferson’s hand reaches forward and he puts the faintest pressure possible on Hamilton’s cock, but it’s more than enough to make him shake with desperation as much as he can within his bonds, to make him try and thrust up into the touch and trying to stop himself from doing so at the same time. He doesn’t come. Jefferson hasn’t said he can yet, and he doesn’t trust him, he doesn’t trust _them_.

He was right to.

“Actually,” says Madison. “I think I’ve changed my mind.” He and Jefferson exchange a look. Jefferson removes his hand. “Jefferson’ll let you come if you give up the banks.”

The whole thing. Made void. Every fiber of his body is screaming out for it, but it wouldn’t be worth it. Not for the deal he’d lose.

“That’s unfair.” He closes his eyes – they’re damp with tears again, he realizes – and breathes out hard. “Not what we agreed.”

“You don’t seem able to employ your usual eloquence,” Madison says. “To persuade us.”

“Need the banks,” Hamilton chokes. “I need the plan. _Please_.”

“Alright,” Madison says with a shrug, as Jefferson steps back. “Your choice.” And that’s it, it’s all over. Jefferson pulls his tied stockings off his wrists and ankles.

“You can have the banks,” Madison says. “Now get the fuck out of this house.”

Hamilton’s exhausted down to the bones, but he has to drag himself up and pull on his shirt, breeches and shoes, all when his cock _aches_ and he feels like one brush of fabric against him will send him over the edge, and Jefferson and Madison are watching. He bundles up the rest of his clothes in his arms, aware of his hair, in total disarray, and face, covered in drying tears, spit and come. He can feel Jefferson’s release dripping out of him inside his breeches, and it makes his face burn red.

He is led to the front door by the both of them and pushed out, the door slammed in his face and suddenly he’s outside in New York City in the middle of the night and only half dressed, cold and alone and weighed down by exhaustion and raw, unattended need. He can’t, _can’t_ go home like this, so he walks, shivering, to his deserted office, sits under his desk where he’s sometimes slept before, when there’s too much work to leave. For a while he does nothing, not wanting to give in to Jefferson even though he could never know, but after a while he reaches under his breeches and strokes himself off, spending in his own hand in less than thirty seconds with a guttural cry.

Afterwards, he leaves himself as is and lies down on his side the best he can, wincing from the pain through his body, falling asleep to the savage hope and fear that Washington will be the one to find him like this in the morning and see the exact state of his compromise. Hamilton smiles, barely. He figured it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks go to the wonderful [poose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poose/pseuds/poose) for beta reading.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://wreathedwith.tumblr.com/).


End file.
